Staying in Ithaca, New York (But Leaving My House)

My story doesn't involve nearly as much change and sadness as some others might. I've lived in Ithaca my entire life; my views, my values, and my beliefs have been shaped by the 18 years I've spent in this place. So when it came time to leave, it didn't feel so much like leaving to me, quite honestly. It felt like change, of course. It felt like a new adventure was beginning, with new people and new opportunities. But leaving? I never saw it that way. My mom certainly did, however. I'll never forget the Sunday morning we were preparing to head up to Ithaca College (a 20 minute drive at most). We were packed, we were prepared, it was time to go. But as my father and brother and sister and I lugged the last bit of luggage out of the house, my mom stopped us. She just wanted us to pause. It was all happening too fast, the end of the process that had consumed most of the past year of my life. We all sat down for a moment, in the living room, together. And my mom wanted us to pray together. Now I don't consider myself a religious person, and for me, personally, prayer wasn't at the top of my list of priorities that morning. But my mom has always needed it: the solace that prayer provides her. I wasn't about to deprive her of that. So we sat, silently, as my mom said a few words. And before she could finish, before the prayer's end, when we would load the car, and I'd drive off into the next chapter of my journey through life, she broke down. She sobbed, she bawled, she lost control, and she cried. And in that moment I realized that it was all a matter of perspective (like most things). From where I was sitting, moving a 20 minute drive away wasn't the end of the world. But to my mom, that 20 minutes was, and is, a life time.